The final match of that night’s tournament was going well for Jormand. Incredibly well. The crowd was cheering for him and his opponent did not stand a chance, he rarely even attempted a strike at Jormand and when he did, it was a pitiful thing. Jormand was feeling good, better than good, never before had he had such attention from the Maerinen nobility and it had been so very long since he had fought anyone worth their salt. So he let the fight drag on, rarely striking for a wounding blow. Each time he got close, he could see the fear mounting on the other man’s face. Even through his narrow visor, Jormand could tell his resolve was broken long since. The man he fought had the look of a hardened soldier. He was tall, for a southerner, and had a face that looked like it had not been finished. The cheekbones were shallow and the nose was pressed flat to his face by more than one punch. His skin was pale, he was not of the old blood, that meant he had gained his position by merit. That made Jormand smile and when he did, his opponent flinched. If this was the best Maerin could throw at him, Jormand’s victory was assured.

And so he stalked his prey around the arena again and again. The poor man would falter and take a step back but Jormand would not let up his onslaught. His reach was still longer than even the tallest southerner he had met and his foe seemed never able to force an opening for himself. And so they carried on that way. Jormand played at making an attack and was hastily blocked, then he took a step and did the same. Each time he swung his increasingly battered sword, the audience roared so loud it reverberated in his enclosed helm. It kept him pressing, only letting up for a moment here or there to let his opponent get his guard up to make the bout more interesting. He would look up at the crowd as the other man retreated and raise his sword to another round of cheers. They were as enraptured as he was. Tonight, he was their champion and it made him feel wonderful.

The match was going so well for Jormand that, when he looked up to see a man with a dagger drawn slinking up behind lord Ealhold, he almost did nothing. He felt pulled back to the fight he wanted so badly to win but his opponent was in a solid guard stance now, there was not way he could break it quickly enough and even as he looked, Galier, who he had not realized was with lord Ealhold, turned and entirely missed the armed man. There was a woman up there as well, but Jormand doubted if she were the target. So with all of the determination he could muster, he tore his attention away from the fight. It felt like breaking a thick cord tying him to his opponent. Every muscle he had protested. Not knowing what to do-- there was no way that lord Ealhold would hear anything he said, no matter how loud --he brought his sword arm back over his shoulder and with a shout, heaved the beaten bronze length straight for the balcony.

The spinning wheel of bronze dropped just low enough to hit the edge of the balcony. It made a ringing clatter as it fell back to the sand where its landing was covered by the crowd. Above, he saw Galier and the others duck reflexively. Good, that was the best Jormand could do, he still had a fight to win. He immediately began to run towards the fallen sword but his opponent chose that moment to break his guard. Jormand’s arm was still flung forward from the throw, his shield was loose and hanging so the best he could manage was an unsteady deflection off of his bracer. Now that Jormand was weaponless, his opponent seemed to find his resolve again. He hurriedly advanced, not giving Jormand enough time to retrieve his weapon from where it lay in the sand, several paces away.

Without his weapon, Jormand knew he could not win. It was easy enough to block the incoming strikes with only his shield but with no way to score a cut, the round could never go in his favor. And now that the haze of martial fury was clearing, he found himself worried for his friend up above. He could hear nothing over the shouts of the crowd and they did not seem to even notice what happened, even though Jormand had thrown away his only weapon. Only weapon, that wasn’t right. Then he remembered the dagger on his left hip. The rules of the tournament stated that all he needed to do was score a cut on his opponent, it did not matter what he accomplished that with.

Jormand reached around awkwardly behind his raised shield and pulled out the short length of iron. It was no sword, the blade was meant for stabbing and not for armored combat to be sure but it would have to do, it was all he had.

Jormand needed the match to end quickly. He began to feel more and more desperate. Up above, somewhere, his only friend in the whole city was in grave danger and Jormand doubted he would be carrying anything to defend himself with. He needed Jormand’s help and Jormand could not give it. He had never fought with a dagger and shield before, he doubted if anyone had except out of necessity. His strikes would barely reach any farther than his hand. Suddenly, the shorter man had the advantage of reach, Jormand was not used to that.

His opponent wasted no time in employing the same strategy Jormand himself had used before. He battered away Jormand’s pathetic attempts at attacks and kept up a barrage that Jormand had to react to quickly, or risk being cut himself. Jormand desperately sought an opening. Any opening. He began to hunker down and attempt strikes at his opponent’s sandaled feet. This only prompted a sneer from the man who now seemed very confident in his ability to win. Jormand did not doubt him now.

Jormand scuttled back, keeping out of reach for a while. He tried to think of some way, however risky, to turn the fight around but he came up with nothing. Harried as he was, constantly, he barely had time to think. So, knowing it for the desperate move that it was, Jormand set his feet firmly in the sand and charged.

That confused his opponent for a moment at least, he paused, sword ready to strike. Jormand did not give him the chance. He rammed into the other man’s shield with all the force he could muster. The broad shields’ collision produced a dull clang as both Jormand and his opponent were thrown off balance. Neither man fell but the force was enough that both men’s shields dropped to their sides. Seeing the opening at the same moment, they both struck.

Jormand felt the sting of the cut and the heat of the blood seeping out from his left shoulder, now undefended but his own strike had not met flesh. The short dagger hung in the air only a few inches from his opponent but those few inches were enough. The other man stepped back and Jormand stood stock still, looking at the blood now spreading in a dark patch on his jacket. The fight was over. He had lost.

The crowd cheered louder than ever. They did not care that Jormand had lost, they cared only for the spectacle of it all. Jormand’s heart still beat furiously, pushing blood into fingers and feet that urged him to keep fighting. He held back, barely. The fight was over. He did not want it to be.

His opponent gloated mercilessly. If not for the conspicuous damage on the man’s armor, one would have thought he had never been on his way to losing. Jormand clenched his jaw angrily and stalked off towards the doors to the stage floor. The loss gnawed at him already but he had more important things to do. Before he was across the arena, he was already at a dead run, shedding bits of armor as he went. By the time he made it up to the spectators’ seats, he was back in the outfit he had begun the evening in, although now it bore several cuts, a few hastily sewn up between bouts. His shoulder wound had begun to ache but he put it out of his mind.

His mad rush towards lord Ealhold’s balcony was blocked several times. It seemed the word had spread now and panicked lords and ladies flooded the walkways. Jormand paid them no mind as he carved his way through the crowd, shouldering anyone aside who got in his way. He was followed by a trail of indignant shouts that he did not hear.

At the base of the stairs lay two guards in full armor, dead on the stone floor, blood already pooled beneath them. Jormand did not stop for them. He took the stairs two at a time and before he realized it, he stood on the balcony itself. Upon hearing Jormand’s footsteps, lord Ealhold turned, brandishing a short sword. The lord’s face was dangerously smooth, the focus of a man ready to spill blood. Beyond Tegrimm, a young woman slumped on the floor, though from the rise and fall of her chest, Jormand could tell she still lived. A dark strip of fabric was tied across her face, covering her nose and left cheek. Below it, a drying coat of blood darkened her skin.

After his initial alarm, Tegrimm relaxed and sheathed his sword again, Jormand could see the tension visibly leave the man, and he beckoned Jormand over.

“Thank you, for what you did” He said in a gruff voice, “If not for you, I think I would be dead now.” He shivered and clutched the gaudy pommel of his sword but he sounded so matter of fact about it. “How an assassin got passed the guards without so much as a peep is beyond me.”

“They’re dead.” Jormand grunted, still searching the balcony for any sign of Galier. “Where is lord Caerest? He was with you.” His panic was mounting again, his breath coming quicker. He could feel his heartbeat shaking in his veins. “Where is he.”

Tegrimm stepped back, eyeing Jormand nervously. Jormand realized he was awkwardly close, staring down at the older lord. “He ran off after the assassin…” Jormand did not stay to hear the end of the sentence, he was down the stairs and in the crowd again before he realized he did not know which way they would have gone.

The crowd broke in front of him with little prodding, those who would stand in his way were of little import. Following the path he assumed would be fastest, he skirted along the outer level of seating until he got to the stairs headed downward. In the stairwell, panicked guests were milling about, some trying to ascend while others descended and over all of it hung a dull buzz of fearful chatter. Jormand had no time for it but as he tried to push his way through, he found some resistance. There were simply too many people crammed into the tight space. It was warm and moist and the constant fearful glances grated at Jormand. In an attempt to make his way through, he shouted over the crowd.

“I’m looking for the assassin, make way!” The crowd only heard “assassin” and within a breath, the stone stairwell echoed with screams.

Jormand continued to push his way through but the going was slow. For each well dressed lady he pushed aside, there was another racing to fill her spot. For every panicky lord he shouldered past, there was another waiting to stand in his way. Over their heads, Jormand could see movement below but he could not reach it. The way was packed thoroughly but down there, traffic flowed freely. Perhaps the Galier had gotten caught in a similar jam, there was a chance.

Jormand finally managed to push and shove his way to the bottom amid sharp, disdainful looks and angry curses. He brusquely left them behind. He paused when he exited the theater. Near the wide doors, groups of people clogged the way but further out, the courtyard was empty. There was not a sign of anyone, assassin or Galier. Across the courtyard, a walkway lined with arches was lit from within, casting shadows over the tiling of the patio. The shadows were deep and still, they could easily hide a man who did not want to be seen. The lack of a sword in the loop at his hip weighed on Jormand in that moment. His dagger did not feel like enough at all.

Cursing himself for not retrieving the sword, Jormand strode out into the courtyard, looking carefully around himself for any indication of a hiding man. The sky had darkened to full night now, the only light came from the lanterns across the courtyard and a thin sliver of a moon above. It was eerie, Jormand felt a chill that was certainly not from the sea breeze.

The walkway was as empty as the patio. Not a sign to show whether anyone had been there. Jormand swung his head around, tossing his sweat matted curls about as he searched. Nothing. He wanted to run, to chase down this assassin but he knew not where to go. He had to make a choice, follow the path towards the manor or away. He chose the latter, hoping that an assassin would have to sneak out, hoping that the assassin could not blend into the crowd that was now flocking towards the manor’s grand hall.

The lantern lit walkway led him to the far end of the patio, then ended. On the wall was a tall, dark, wooden door. Jormand tried the handle. It was locked. He shook his head in anger. Dead end. That left him with only one choice, to cross the open courtyard where deep shadows hid half of everything from view. But he could not go back to the hall, that was not an option now.

Again mustering his courage, Jormand bolted out onto the tiled expanse of shadow cut with stark lines of lantern light where it shone through the arches. He had no time to waste and he hoped his frantic pace would make it harder for the hidden assassin to surprise him. His path led him behind the theater, to a section of railing overlooking a smaller patio. He had been there not but a few hours ago but in the moonlight it looked far more menacing. The water reflected what little light there was, casting dancing sparks on its minute waves.

It took a moment for Jormand’s eyes to adjust to the low light, but when they did, he saw that a shape he had assumed was another shadow was actually a man kneeling on the lowered patio. Jormand drew his dagger and carefully descended the stairs, careful not to make a sound. It was a futile effort. The clacking of his hobnailed boots on the tile was piercing in the quiet night. Still, the shape before him did not move. As he got closer, he recognized the red coat and the mop of now not so contained dirty blond hair. It was Galier, alone on the patio, nobody else was in sight.

Jormand wanted desperately to rush over but he forced himself to remain cautious. He peered into the shadows around the patio, looking for any signs of movement but he saw none. The night was as still as it was quiet but it still seemed somehow off to him. But he could see nothing out of place, so he hurried to Galier’s side. As he drew nearer, he could see no signs of injury. Galier shuddered softly but there was no blood, no torn clothing. Still, Jormand approached cautiously.

Jormand knelt down on the tiled floor in front of Galier and rested a hand on his friend’s shoulder. His tired legs protested but he managed to keep from falling. Jormand noticed the dagger gripped fiercely in Galier’s left hand. His knuckles were white from the force of it, and shaking.

“Galier?” Jormand asked gently-- there was no blood, no signs of a wound, he could afford to be gentle. “Are you alright? I was told you followed the assassin…” He looked around again, now remembering what he was actually doing.

Galier responded but still did not raise his head. “He’s gone, over the wall.”

Jormand craned his neck over his shoulder to look at the wall to his back. It was easily over ten feet high and made of smooth stone, nobody could scale it, especially not at night. That left Jormand confused but it did not really matter. The assassin was gone but Galier was still in trouble, of a sort.

“Well that's good, if he’s gone.” Jormand moved to stand but Galier did not budge, he still sat, unmoving, staring at the dagger gripped in his hand. “Come on, let's go home.”

“I could have stopped him, you know.” Galier whispered, so softly Jormand could barely hear in the quiet night. “I could have. I heard him coming.” Galier took a deep, shuddering breath. “And again, he was climbing a rope over the wall, I could have stopped him but…” Galier gritted his teeth angrily and Jormand could have sworn he saw tears dripping from his face. “I was afraid, he had his back turned and I was afraid.” Galier finally looked up, locking his wide, burning eyes with Jormand’s. His makeup had been ruined, now smudged all over the right side of his face, leaving the left oddly pristine. “I let him climb up the wall, pull that thrice damned rope up after him. Then he stops to taunt me, he sits up on that wall,” Galier jerked up the dagger to point towards the top of the wall, Jormand quickly shifted aside to avoid being cut. “And he tells me to look up at the stars, because the stars never change…” He let the dagger fall then, clattering onto the tile but Jormand did not notice.

Jormand’s blood was running cold. He knew who the assassin was, he had met the man that very night, not but a few feet away from the patio he was in now. He wanted to leave very badly in the moment. Once again, he tried to stand and once again Galier refused, he would not move an inch.

“Galier, we should go.” He said, unhappy to find a little of his fear in his voice.

“I can’t go back there, Jor. I failed, they’ll all see that.” He sniffed softly, his voice teetered on the edge of crying. “And just look at me, I can’t be seen like this.” It was a pitiful sight to behold. The poor man slumped like a wineskin with a hole poked in it. His evening’s finery was wrinkled and disheveled now and the makeup he had no doubt gone through great pains to get exactly right was smudged beyond recognition. Perhaps Jormand did not fully understand but he did know what it felt like to be reticent to face the scornful stares of his peers.

“But we have to go, Galier. I saw everyone leaving. They’re probably all gone by now.” Jormand said. He was feeling increasingly uneasy. There could always be more assassins, even if there was no evidence. He remained standing and tried to coax Galier up from his knees.

Galier finally acquiesced. He relied heavily on Jormand’s strength to pull him to his feet but he did not resist. As he stood, the shadows that clung to him fled from the dim moonlight. Jormand could see his face more clearly. Galier’s eyes were red rimmed, not only from his makeup, and narrow troughs showed under his eyes. The tears were dry now but their passage left its mark.

Jormand shook his head and sighed, he knew his friend cared deeply about the way others saw him, it would do him no good to be seen in such a state. So he undid his already ruined jacket and used a sleeve with less blood and sweat on it to carefully wipe the spoiled makeup from Galier’s face. It was harder than he expected, what with how easily it seemed to smudge, but with a little work and some water from the nearby pool, he was able to get most of it off. Galier smiled gratefully, his eyes were still moist but Jormand could not help but return the smile.

“I’m sorry about your jacket.” Galier mumbled, shakily.

“It was already ruined, don’t you worry yourself.” Jormand slipped an arm around Galier’s shoulders and tugged him gently towards the stairs, draping the jacket over his other arm.

“You did really well tonight, I’m glad you came.” Galier sniffed sharply, apparently still holding back tears, but Jormand was happy to see his mood was improving.

“I’m glad I came too.”

“Did you win?” Galier had stopped suddenly, forcing Jormand to do so as well.

“Ah, um, no I didn’t.” Galier lost his smile quickly, so Jormand hastened to add, “But I think it was rather clear that I could have. Next time perhaps.”

“Oh, yes, next time.” Galier began walking again and the two of them strolled back across the tiled courtyard towards the main manor building.

The patio was nearly empty now, only servants remained, bustling around, carrying cushions from the theater as well as dented and damaged armor. A woman in a white dress helped a man with a bandaged leg onto a chair carried by a pair of tired looking porters. The whole patio was quiet, but it did not bother Jormand now. Very few people spoke and when they did, it was in hushed tones that did not carry. He could feel the tension but he did not worry, it was safe enough now, the assassin was gone and he had a feeling the dark clothed man did not mean to reappear.

As they passed the chair carried by porters towards the large doors leading back into the manor, the injured man gave Jormand something of a salute with one hand. Jormand did not think he had fought the man himself, but he returned the salute before turning away.

The walk through the manor house proper was just as quiet as the courtyard. The halls were nearly empty, it seemed the guests had taken their leave as quickly as possible. They did pass one man in an ornate robe arguing with an armored guard but they left him behind quickly.

At the tall, bronze banded doors that led out the front of the manor, lord Tegrimm Ealhold stood with a group of four other nobles, their heads were pressed together and they spoke quickly but Jormand could not hear a word they said. Tegrimm’s wife, Eliah was with him now and she motioned frantically with both hands as she talked. Tegrimm turned aside as Jormand and Galier passed and nodded to them with a grateful look, he did not speak to them however and let them pass through the doorway.

Jormand found his guards still waiting by the chariot, most of the other vehicles were gone now. He did not see anything with Galier’s crest or colors but he only shrugged when Jormand asked.

“I walked,” He said sheepishly. “I wasn’t in the mood to go back home.”

“Ride with me then, at least as far as that.” Jormand gestured to the guards who now stood at attention, spears pointing to the sky and shields held at the ready. They took up positions flanking the chariot and Galier resisted very little as Jormand guided him up onto the low platform of the chariot. There was plenty of room, it had been built to easily hold three. The two massive beasts that pulled it would not notice the change in weight. The horses were huge, especially for Maerin. They were of good northern stock, there were few horses in Jormand’s homeland but the ones there were prized beyond silver or gold. These two had come with him. It had been an expense to have them brought by boat but Jormand thought it worth the coin. Each animal stood nearly as tall as Jormand at the shoulder, they towered over his guards. They bore shaggy manes and long fur around their hooves, they were clearly accustomed to cold but they held themselves upright and ready even in the all encompassing southern heat.

Jormand took the reins and set the horses to a slow walk, allowing the guards to keep pace. He was in no rush to be home himself and could use the time to think. His final loss in the tournament still refused to let him be, it hid at the edge of his mind and invaded his thoughts whatever they were. He knew he should have won. Even with only his dagger, he should have won. He was angry but not for the lost prestige or even the lost money, he was angry because it was not right.

Jormand gripped the reins tightly, causing the horses to whicker in confusion. Galier put a hand on his arm, pulling Jormand away from his thoughts. “Are you alright?” He asked, he looked worried. Jormand suddenly felt guilty, he had been worrying about his tournament, not even giving a second’s thought to the fact that Galier had nearly been killed.

“I am fine, really, this evening has just put a sour taste in my mouth.” He relaxed the reins and held the horses at a walk.

Galier nodded. “It has been a night I will not soon forget, I think.” Jormand agreed wholeheartedly, though probably not for the same reasons.

They continued to ride in silence through the dim streets. The moon and stars cast a wan light but it was all they had to see by, no lanterns were lit, no windows were unshuttered. It was as if the whole city hid. Jormand doubted that news of the assasination attempt had spread so fast but he could not help feeling that the emptiness was due to more than just the late hour.

When they finally arrived at the gate to Derran manor, Galier took his leave quickly, making it clear that he could manage his way home from here. Jormand was hesitant to let him go alone, but there was no stopping him. They said their goodbyes and Jormand trudged into the manor grounds, leaving the guards to deal with his chariot.

Jormand made his way through the manor without really noticing what he passed. There were guards at the gate and servants cleaning in the halls but he did not really see them. He walked directly to his rooms without stopping for a moment even though passing through the kitchen reminded him that he was more than a little hungry.

When he arrived at his rooms, Jormand threw down the damaged jacket and tore off his stained shirt. He undid his belt, boots, footwraps, and trousers and tossed them onto the pile as well, someone would be by to handle them eventually. He padded over to a side room where a full washbasin sat under a mirror. The cool tiles felt good on his bare feet after the insulated heat of his clothing. He stood in front of the mirror for a moment, grinning at the haggard man who looked back at him. His curly brown hair was still plastered to his head with sweat in the shape of the helm he had worn and his face was lined with coarse stubble. It made him look much rougher than usual, especially in combination with the dried blood from his shoulder wound. It was a small cut and had already stopped bleeding, he did not worry about it. The cut on his back had been stitched up between fights and he was surprised that he had not torn it open again. Looking as he did, still damp with sweat and touched with blood, he was reminded of old times, of his years spent back home. It brought a savage grin to his face. It fit well.

Jormand slept well that night, thoroughly exhausted but content. He dreamed of battle and of blood though he did not remember any of it when he awoke.